


Unexpected

by I_Am_Terra



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Stripper John, There is going to be actual detective work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3479777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_Terra/pseuds/I_Am_Terra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within a period of two months, four strippers have committed suicide by taking the exact same poison.<br/>Sherlock is convinced that the strippers were murdered and is determined to find the culprit. At the same time Sherlock is positively obsessed with a certain blonde stripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seal

The first time Sherlock had an orgasm, it was in the deserted male bathroom of a strip club. It was a particularly dull day and his friend, Mike Stamford, seeing that he was restless and bored, had suggested visiting the nearest strip club.

Sherlock had always found strippers distasteful, they were not shameless enough to become prostitutes, and not successful enough to become porn stars. But Mike had insisted, and seeing the good-natured smile on Mike’s face, Sherlock had followed reluctantly with a scowl on his face.

His notion about strippers went out the window when he stepped into _The Rear End_ and saw the male stripper, shirtless, swaying about on the stage.

The male stripper was in a pair of faded blue jeans, a stripped jumper and a white undershirt lay in a heap beside him. Sherlock was immediately drawn to the beautiful golden-brown skin and compact muscles. In fact, he thought that the stripper looked absolutely marvellous, his azure eyes shining, his thin lips parted and a pink flush on his cheeks. To add on to that, his sandy blonde hair did wonders to bring out those bright blue eyes.

In that moment, it felt as if everybody else in the room ceased to exist and it was only him and the stripper. And oh, how he stared. He knew Mike said something to him about getting a seat, but he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t move, his gaze fixed on the one thing in the room that mattered.

When the pair of jeans slipped off the stripper’s sinewy legs to reveal a pair of red bikini briefs, Sherlock felt all the blood in his body rush to his groin. Sherlock had just enough time to sprint to the nearest bathroom before a tent formed in his trousers. And then, he had stroked himself to oblivion.

 

*

 

After that experience, Sherlock had returned to the strip club every day (looking shamefaced and aghast) to see if he could catch another glimpse of the blonde stripper. Sherlock knew how disparaging it would be if he were to be seen in that club, and he always went in a disguise.

In the strip club, he would be known as Sherrinford Hope, a stout, sallow skinned accountant with a taste for rum. Nothing like the Sherlock Holmes everyone was familiar with.

After visiting the strip club a few times, Sherlock had discovered that the stripper performed under the alias John, and that John only performed on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.

His frequent visits had also made it evident to him that when John wasn’t on stage, he remained flaccid and bored. But once John stepped onto the stage, Sherlock’s eyes would be glued to the stripper, and when the trousers were removed, Sherlock would already be half hard. And every time the performance ended, no matter John retained his underwear or went off nude, Sherlock would be left wishing for more.

Since visiting the club, Sherlock had stopped injecting himself with cocaine. But one night, when his eyes again fell on John’s tanned skin, he realized that he had merely traded one addiction for another.

 

*

 

_The lab at Bart’s is extremely spacious. The air conditioning makes sure that the room is blanketed in wintery cold. Occasionally, a gust of cold air would bring with it the reek of antiseptics. Sherlock knows that the lab is kept absolutely sterile, and the walls purposefully made sound-proof for Sherlock’s gamut of experiments, allowing the room to be pleasingly silent._

_“Sherlock.” The silence is broken by a soft moan, the sound bounces off the white walls right back into Sherlock’s ear and a thrill runs down Sherlock’s spine._

_Sherlock is supposed to be observing some ruptured red blood cells. But fuck. Who cares about red blood cells when your own head is about to be ruptured by the sight of John lying naked on the lab table? And fuck, is it a sight to behold – John lying on his back, beads of sweat glistening on his tanned skin and his legs raised in the air. And oh god, those legs, how Sherlock wants to massage those hard muscles and feel them clench between is his fingers. Sherlock’s hand nags John’s legs apart and he hovers over to stand between them, immediately muscular legs wrap tightly around Sherlock’s hips and pulls Sherlock onto the table._

_Beneath him, a gasp erupts from John’s lips as Sherlock presses his chest against John’s and stares into the other man’s eyes. Those eyes look so gorgeous – Sherlock saw fireflies dancing in cloudless blue skies, where a black moon hung in the middle. Breath-taking._

_His trousers suddenly feel too tight, and Sherlock rolls his hips in an attempt to relieve the pressure, pressing his growing erection against John’s hip._

_The silence in the room was again interrupted by long hisses. Sherlock looks up. John is writhing beneath him, desperately rolling his own hips. Sherlock smiles when he feels John’s cock harden against his._

_“Be patient, John. Be patient just for me.” Sherlock whispers darkly into John’s ear. To Sherlock’s delight, John melts upon hearing his raspy voice and flows like lava below him, giving himself up to allow Sherlock to mould him, to shape him._

_“Yes, John. You’re so good for me.” The words are slurred as Sherlock’s hand glides from the table top to the cheek of John’s arse, he grabs a handful of that firm flesh and squeezes – hard._

_The loud yelp that filled the room is like the chime of a glass bell. The sound tastes like vanilla ice-cream with just a hint of lemon sorbet, cool and refreshing. Sherlock’s vision goes fuzzy and the world appears white around the edges._

_No. He is done with being patient. For god’s sake, the sexiest man is the world right there, joined to him by the hip! And his voice, his voice sounds like sex and danger and Chrysanthemum tea – warm, gentle and fragrant. Sherlock wants to hear that voice moan his name. Oh, he can’t wait._

_In a flurry of movement, Sherlock’s trousers and pants are pulled down to rest at his thighs. The sound of his heart thrashing about in his chest is like a chaos in his ear. He can feel the adrenaline bubbling up in his blood, he can feel himself trembling, and he can feel his cock stand up expectantly as he aligns it to John’s hole._

_Nothing is going to stop him now. He braced his hips as he gets ready to—_

 

Sherlock gasped as he awoke. His wet fringe was plastered to his forehead, his heart hammering in his chest and his breath short and uneven.

Three years had passed since Sherlock first set foot in _The Rear End_. And John still invaded his dreams nightly.

Sherlock couldn’t even remember how many nights he awoke with the salty taste of John skin lingering on his mouth, the all-too-realistic image of John’s body pushing against his and the faraway ringing of John’s moans against his ear. It always tore Sherlock apart to the point that Sherlock no longer understood whether it was sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare.

Going to the club was a habit now. And sporadically, Sherlock would have the compulsion to go and speak to John. It was one of those times when John would sit around chatting with his fans (fans? Sexual predators? Clients?) before his performance. He seemed so kind and warm-hearted then that Sherlock’s legs had brought him to the stripper’s side entirely on their own. But once Sherlock was standing close to John, his throat felt dry, his heart thumped loudly in his chest and he felt something flutter in his stomach. That was the moment when he realized that, no, he couldn’t do it, and he had dashed away to his safe haven. The male toilet.

Sherlock sighed. He was simply hopeless. What were the feelings he had for the stripper? Love? Passion? Infatuation? He was literally obsessed with someone he didn’t even dare to approach, someone he has never talked to before. For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt like he was an idiot. But doesn’t love makes idiots of us all?

Perhaps someday, Sherlock thought, he would actually be bestowed the chance to talk to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Rear End_ might appear to you to be the most ingenious name for a strip club ever (and it is), but I actually didn't come up with it myself, it's a strip club that actually exists and I found a picture of it on google.  
>  Here's the picture:  
>  **<http://img2.rnkr-static.com/user_node_img/50039/1000766961/870/4-photo-u1.jpg>**
> 
> Also if anyone gets angry, I'm sorry for ending Sherlock's dream at the high point!


	2. Demise

“Three strippers have committed suicide in the past two months, and these terrifying events have caused some considerable uneasiness. We are here to remind you that you are safe as long as you hide your kids, hide your wife and-”

Sherlock jabbed at the off button on the remote. Though Sherlock was interested in the report, the news anchor’s monotonous voice made the news exceedingly dull. Sitting at home doing nothing was extremely dull. Not having a case was just so unbearably dull. Sometimes, Sherlock wished he had recorded one of John’s performances so that he could at least have something worthwhile to watch at home.

Ugh. Dull. Boring. Pathetic. Sherlock was in one of his darker moods and he absolutely needed a case to cheer him up. If Lestrade would be so good to just give him a god damn case.

Sherlock checked his phone, still no texts from Lestrade. He had texted Lestrade a total of 257 times in two days, Lestrade, being the heartless prick that he is, had replied to the first with a “No Sherlock, I do not have a case for you right now.” and ignored all subsequent ones. That idiot clearly does not know what he is doing, so many cases could be solved within two days if he would just be willing to ask Sherlock for help.

Sherlock was still silently scolding Lestade when there came two short taps on the door. He immediately shot up. Ah, Lestrade is here. Nobody else would knock the door in such a furtive and unwilling manner.

Sherlock opened the door and turned back into the room without so much as a glance at Lestrade.

“Sherlock. I’ve got a case for you. Have you heard of the suicides? Three that are exactly the same.” Lestrade sounded out of breath.

Ah, it was the case about the strippers. That case has immense potential to become interesting, especially since Sherlock had never entertained the idea of them being suicides in the first place. “Four. There’s been a fourth.” Sherlock mused. “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know they never leave notes…? This one did.”

At those words, Sherlock immediately felt exuberant. Yes! That was exactly what he was waiting for. Four serial suicides and now a note. Ah, it’s Christmas!

Despite his inner excitement, Sherlock’s face was impassive. “Where?” He asked.

“Brixton, a hostel for strippers. They call it _The Back End_.”

Sherlock snorted at the name as he grabbed his tweed overcoat and his cashmere scarf from the coat rack. He was out the door within ten seconds.

 

*

 

Half an hour later, Sherlock was walking briskly down the narrow gravel pathway leading to _The Back End_ , with Lestrade by his side.

A bright-eyed, clean-shaved man in his thirties was waiting for them by the main gate. He was dressed luxuriously in a deep blue Vivienne Westwood suit, his thin brows neatly trimmed and his dark hair had an unnatural shine, indicating that he put too much products in it.

“Welcome gentlemen. Now am I glad to see you here, it’s been utter chaos in there. I’ve seen the murders on TV, but I would never have thought that it would happen to one of my strippers. But that’s not what you’re here for, now is it? Oh, look at me, we haven’t even introduced ourselves yet. Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector…” When the man had finally finished talking, he looked from Sherlock to Lestrade, then settled on Lestrade (perhaps because Lestrade looked older, and Sherlock looked too young to be a DI) and extended his hand to the Detective Inspector.

“Lestrade.” Lestrade answered as he took the hand and gave it a firm, business-like shake, while raising his eyebrows smugly at Sherlock.

“Ah yes, Lestrade.” The man had now withdrawn his hand and was rubbing his hands together, looking slightly ferret-like. “I’m Moriarty. Jim Moriarty. I manage this place. And the club.” He lowered his voice as he muttered the last three words. Sherlock arched a brow at the man’s behaviour, he was clearly bragging.

“And this must be the private detective.” Jim Moriarty turned to Sherlock now, smiling and thrusting out his hand again.

“Consulting detective.” Sherlock scowled dismissively, conveniently ignoring the offered hand. “Do show us to the crime scene.”

Moriarty looked unaffected; he even opened his mouth as if to say something again. Sherlock dreaded having to talk to the man again, he skirted around Moriarty before he could speak and crouched down to look at the grass patch bordering the hostel building.

After a moment’s silence, Sherlock could hear Moriarty start talking to Lestrade again. God, he was insufferable.

“The club is in chaos now. I’m sorry, but I really need to go back. One of my employees will show you the room… Ah, there he is. I’ve already informed him beforehand, he’ll bring you to Henry’s room.” Moriarty was too talkative for Sherlock’s liking and he tried to ignore the man’s obnoxious rambling. “So sorry.” The man apologized again before he rushed away.

Sherlock was secretly glad that Moriarty was gone, even though he didn’t know if the employee would be better or worse. Sherlock could hear the employee coming from the direction of the hostel, and decided to wait and see.

Sherlock was still squatting on the soft grass, observing a patch of mud using his magnifying glass, when his ears perked up at a surprisingly pleasing voice to his right. “You must be the detective, let me lead you to Henry Knight’s room.”

“Yes. Please do.” Sherlock answered before lifting his head up. Sherlock was not prepared for what for in store for him. His mind switched off completely as his gaze fell upon a pair of lustrous azure eyes.

_John._

 

Oh, he was _infinitely_ better than Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Rear End_ wasn't a name thought up by me, by _The Back End_ is. And gosh do I feel smart.  
>  Okay guys, I actually wanted to call the The Back End, Bag End. But that is clearly inappropriate became that is a place where strippers live at, for God’s Sake, not someplace where Halflings sit about and have second breakfast.


	3. Encounter

Sherlock felt like all the air had been simultaneously sucked out of his lungs. He couldn’t even think and he did the first thing that came to mind.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock internally kicked himself in the stomach for saying that. That was a sure way to offend John. He would get angry, he would say “piss off” like everybody else, and he would walk away. Oh, he had blown his only chance of talking to John.

Sherlock pushed all his thoughts away and looked desperately at John. To his surprise, the blonde did not seem annoyed at all, if fact he looked… Dazzled. “Afghanistan. How did you… Never mind, let’s make our way to Henry’s room, yeah?”

“You used to be a soldier.” Sherlock internally kicked himself again, but it clearly wasn’t working. He had known John was a soldier ever since he saw that spider-web wound on John’s left shoulder. It was all crystal clear to him. The hollow in the middle was caused by a 0.75 calibre bullet that is forever embedded in his flesh. The surrounding interlocking mass of web was from the infection afterwards. As a soldier rarely got doctors and medicine readily at hand, infection from a wound was not uncommon; and from the size of John’s wound, he has sustained at least two days without medical attention. The man clearly had a very strong will-power, and Sherlock had seen that the first time he laid eyes on him.

John nodded, still looking amazed. Sherlock was so pleased with John’s amazement that he suddenly couldn’t control himself and words flowed out of his mouth like water down a waterfall. “The way you stand unusually straight and keep your arms pressed firmly to your sides says military. As a soldier, there are only two places you could have been that could give that kind of tan, so either Afghanistan or Iraq. You were dispatched because you were struck in the left shoulder by a bullet. Your clean hands and well-trimmed nails tell me that you are a doctor. So army doctor, then. Now, you’re working here as a stripper because the wound has made your left arm permanently weak and has forever ruined your perfect surgeon hands.”

John positively gaped, utterly impressed by Sherlock’s short demonstration. “You’ve got everything right. That, that was amazing.”

Sherlock was immensely pleased at John’s evident surprise and admiration. He was the first person to react this way after Sherlock had just deduced all his secrets.

Sherlock was about to introduce himself when Lestrade came up behind him, looking sympathetically at John. “I’m really sorry you were subjected that just now. I’m the detective inspector, please bring us to the victim’s room.”

“Sure!” John piped and darted into the building, oblivious to Lestrade’s sympathy and Sherlock’s growing interest.

 

*

 

The victim’s name was Henry Knight. His room was on the first floor, window facing the grass patch Sherlock had been examining. The room contained all the bare essentials - a single bed with rusting metal posts stood in the middle of the room with a bedside table to its left, to the right, a plastic drawer cabinet stood by the wall, hardly taller than the bedside table. The state of the room was pitiful, the oak flooring was cracked, and splinters stuck out haphazardly. The cream wallpaper, which no doubt had a majestic grandeur to it in the past, but was now dotted with faded stains and cracked patches.

Sherlock was disgusted at beggarly living conditions and wondered if John lived in a similar room. He made up his mind to ask John later and continued observing the room.

The victim was slumped against the bedside table, his head lolling forward on the table and his left arm resting limply on the wooden surface beside his head. In his left hand, he clutched a pen, the tip pressing into a shamrock green business card belonging to a Mr. Victor Trevor. And on it, was written the victim’s concise note:

_Murder. Kill. John Watson._

 

Sherlock read the note a few times. “Who’s John Watson?” He asked without looking up.

Through the corner of his eyes, Sherlock could see John shift uncomfortably as he prepared to answer.

“Oh… Uh… Me.”

 

 

 

_Huh?_

John Watson? John is…

Oh. Of course. John. His name is John Watson. That’s his real name.

Sherlock felt ecstatic, he had found out John’s last name! It’s Watson! It’s written on the note! Wait. The note…

Suddenly, all the joy from learning John’s real name left him and Sherlock felt his blood run cold. He froze and peered at the blonde man standing beside him. “You’re the next target.” Sherlock stated, his voice unexpectedly even.

John fidgeted as looked from Lestrade to Sherlock. From his periphery vision, Sherlock could see that Lestrade was staring intensely at John as well.

John was surprisingly undisturbed, instead he grinned sheepishly. “Yes. I guess I am.” He replied nonchalantly.

“No. You don’t understand. John Watson, you are in danger.” Sherlock snapped. The casual way John replied brought on an unexplained wave of rage. He had just had the opportunity to talk to John, he was not going to allow John to die the next day. Or the next month. Or the next year. Or ever.

John stumbled back a few steps, taken aback. Seeing that the air was getting a stifling, Lestrade took out a note book and decided to start questioning John. “You live in this building?”

“Yes. Three rooms down the corridor.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up upon hearing the answer and he took a mental note it.

“Who discovered the body?”

“Me.”

“At what time?”

“About an hour ago.”

“How long has he been dead.”

“Well. You have your own forensics pathologist. But if I were to say, by the state of his Livor mortis, at least 14 hours.”

“No, what I mean is when was he last --”

Sherlock could not stand the unimportant questions anymore, and he interjected before Lestrade could finish asking another. “Why are you so calm?”

Turning his attention to Sherlock, John gave him a toothy grin. “I used to be a field surgeon. I’ve see my fair share of injuries and violent deaths. Enough for a lifetime, if you were to pry.”

Apparently offended by Sherlock’s rude behaviour, Lestrade cut in before Sherlock could pose another unnecessary question. “This place is not safe anymore. I’d suggest you come with me and live in a protected compound.” Lestrade proposed as he eyed the blonde with even more sympathy than before. Considering the sparse living conditions, Sherlock had to secretly agree with Lestrade.

But John just shrugged and smiled, his manner was still too relaxed. “It’s alright. I’ve got nerves of steel. Anyway, having this sense of danger surrounding me is rather exciting, isn’t it?”

Both men stared at John wide-eyed. Lestrade was shocked that John even savoured danger. Sherlock was shocked that John even exists. He was incredible. Brave, strong, a risk-taker, able to appreciate Sherlock’s intelligence… John Watson was a fucking marvel.

And at that instant, Sherlock realized that he _had_ to claim this marvel as his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock got to talk to John. Yay...
> 
>  
> 
> ____________
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, so I've been informed that John's Afghanistan tan would not be so obvious after 3 years of working at the club, that's why I've come up with an alternative that goes something like this (I swear I wasn't drunk when I wrote this): 
> 
> Sherlock: "Milk or vanilla milkshake?"  
>  John: "What?!"  
>  Sherlock: "Did you drink milk or vanilla milkshake in the morning? You still have some of the white beverage on your stubble."  
>  John:"Um... Actually. I think it's semen."  
>  Sherlock:  
>  John:  
>  Lestrade:  
>  Sherlock:  
>  John: "Excuse me. I was just kidding. It was milk. Now let's go to the crime scene, yeah?" (Okay, maybe I was a little drunk)


	4. Purgatory

“Alright Mr. Detective, would you like to meet Victor Trevor now?” John’s words startled Sherlock out of his mind palace, where he had just furnished a new room specially for John. “You know. The name on the business card. Uh… Besides mine.” John gestured to the bedside table where the victim was slouching over.

“Call me Sherlock.” Sherlock responded with an almost-imperceptible smile (almost-imperceptible to Sherlock means absolutely imperceptible to John). “Victor Trevor. Yes.”

With a polite nod to Sherlock and Lestrade, John was out the room. Sherlock hastily picked up the shamrock green card and followed.

 

*

 

Victor Trevor was a hearty, vibrant fellow with a quick tongue and fierce blue eyes. Sherlock found himself looking into those eyes and telling himself that a particular pair of warm blue eyes was much more alluring.

Victor was incredibly sharp too. Once he was cognizant of the fact that the two gentlemen in his room were detectives, he immediately began defending himself. “I know you’re here because you found my card in Henry’s possession, but it’s not what you think. Really. I only gave him my card because I wanted to collaborate with him.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he studied the man. Even though he tried to look unperturbed, Sherlock could see that Victor Trevor’s breathing rate increased once he stepped into the room, also he seemed a bit edgy, the way he twiddled with his thumbs and shook his legs purposelessly.

“Why did he keep the card on his bedside table then? Why not in his coat pocket, or his cabinet? Why keep it so close at hand? So he could write his dying words on it?” Sherlock's questioning technique was lightning quick. And as he was speaking, he took out the green business card from his pocket and handed it to Victor.

Victor’s hand trembled as he held the card between his thumb and forefinger, and it didn’t go unnoticed from Sherlock’s sharp eyes. “That’s because I called on him last night and left it on his bedside table.” Now Victor’s voice trembled as he tried to avoid Sherlock’s piercing gaze.

Sherlock frowned, he could not understand what was causing this man to be so nervous. This is not how a murderer would act. Sherlock stooped closer and tried to study the man more carefully. Suddenly, as if the chair he was sitting on was searing hot, Victor jumped up and grabbed Sherlock's arm. “Please stop staring at me like that. Ever since you came in I have been trying to keep my emotions in check. I’ve always had a soft spot for tall brunettes, and you’re just gorgeous. And when you stare at me like that, I can’t control myself.” A flush was appearing on Victor’s face now, and he tightened his grip on Sherlock.

Behind Sherlock, he could hear Lestrade snort, and he had to fight the impulse to turn around and punch the Detective Inspector in the throat. Sherlock had to fight an even greater impulse to turn around and observe John, to see if John thought of him in the same way and to see if John was jealous. But now was not the time for that.

With lightning speed, Sherlock snatched the card from between Victor’s fingers, pulled his arm free, and sprinted out the door. How could he have been so daft? The man’s body language showed attraction, not guilt. In fact, Sherlock had ascertained that Victor was innocent since the moment he mentioned that he called on the victim the night before. If he were the murderer, he would know that Henry died at that time period and would not have mentioned it. And even if Victor really were to be stupid (which he very well could be), he would have removed his card from the bedside table when he left to avoid suspicion. Now that Sherlock had determined that Victor was innocent, he had no more reason to stay there and make a fool of himself.

He was almost at the end of the corridor when he heard Victor calling out behind him. “Keep the card! Remember to call me when you’re free!”

Sherlock was practically seething when he turned the bend. Sherlock had never had any admirers before, why did he have to meet one now? And especially when John was around? Ugh.

 

*

 

The bed creaked as John flopped onto it. John chose to ignore it like his always has and glanced at the alarm clock on his bed stand. 8.42pm. John let out a long sigh as he let his muscles relax. Finally, all the police officers, forensic pathologists and detectives have left.

It had been a long and exhausting day. The workers at the strip club were having massive panic attacks and Moriarty had to go deal with it, so John had to be left with the menial task of accompanying the police officers around.

The police officers were alright, but that detective, Sherlock, had seized John and had practically made him his tour guide. He kept asking John to lead him to places a detective had no reason to go to. And from the look in detective’s intelligent cadet grey eyes, he could easily manoeuvre around the building without a guide. Sherlock certainly seemed competent enough, being able to find John in his room after the incident at Victor's room.

John closed his eyes and massaged them over the lids using his fingers. That Sherlock had dragged him around for the entire afternoon, interrogating almost every inhabitant of the building before bringing John to the grass patch surrounding the building. Outside, he had ran one round clockwise, then two rounds anti-clockwise around the hostel building, all the while keeping John in tow. It was definitely fun, but John would really have liked a break in the middle.

 

John was just drifting off to sleep when the window rattled.

John gave an exasperated sigh. Even the wind was taunting him now.

The window rattled again, louder.

John shook his head, eyes still closed. The night winds around those parts were exceptionally strong.

The window rattled again, much louder than before.

John shot up, he eyes were wrenched open now. That was definitely _not_ the wind. The soldier in John was roused and he tried peering out the window, but it was too dark to make out any shapes.

Gingerly, John reached one hand under his pillow and pulled out a gun. Instincts told him to creep towards the window and throw it open. (Instincts would tell any normal person to dash out of the room immediately, but we all know John’s instincts are a bit off)

And when did John ever not follow his instincts?

Trying to be as quiet as possible, John undid the fasteners on the window and threw it open.

“Don’t move.” John shouted as he pointed the gun into the enveloping darkness. He could have sworn he heard a dry chuckle from within the darkness.

He was not given a chance to listen more closely as at that moment, John felt a sharp blow to his knuckles. His gun dropped to the wooden floor and slithered into the corner of the room.

John knelt down in an attempt to grab hold of the gun again. However, before he could reach the gun, a shadow rose from the window and in one fluid motion, it pounced onto John.

John did not even know what hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, if there's anything you hate about my writing style, please say it (but don't be too brutal). I'm trying very hard to work on it right now.


	5. Shangri-La

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all your kudos and comments. It's a great motivation to have people telling me they love my fic! :)  
> It's really quite amazing since I expected like 2 kudos and 1 comment... So thank you guys for your support!

“Mr Detective.” Sherlock heard the pleasant voice from that afternoon reverberate around the room, sending a warm thrill down his spine.

Despite having just been unexpectedly pounced on, the blonde soldier was not displaying any fear or agitation. In fact, he just stared up at the consulting detective, amusement and confusion written all over his face.

Sherlock himself wore a faint smirk as he peered at the beautiful stripper splayed out beneath him. This was like a scene from one of his dreams, except that they would be naked and kissing by now. _By now._ Sherlock internally laughed at that.  
But this wasn’t one of his dreams, and Sherlock forcefully suppressed his inappropriate thoughts.

“Greetings, John Watson. And please, call me Sherlock.”

“Uh. Sure. Sherlock.” John muttered grudgingly, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock ignored John’s blunt display of displeasure and instead opted to press himself closer into John’s body, smiling when John winced at the crushing weight on top of him.

After a moment of intense staring, John spoke again, hostility evident in his voice. “Now, Sherlock. It would be nice if you could get. Off. Me.” The last three words were each punctuated with a hard shove. The last shove sent Sherlock tumbling to the ground.

In the next instant, John had Sherlock pushed to the floor, a knee in his back and his wrists held tightly against his spine. “This building is surrounded by metal fencing, how did you get in?”

Sherlock almost grinned. Of course the first question that comes to John’s mind is ‘how did you break in?’ instead of ‘What are you doing here?’.

“To see you again.” Sherlock blabbed.

“Pardon?”

It was not as if Sherlock was embarrassed or anything, but Sherlock couldn’t help himself as he cleared his throat, blinked twice and turned his head away from John stiffly. “The lock used for the side gate has a 5 pin tumbler system, single-circuit burglar alarm. It was child’s play.”

Luckily, John does not notice the flush on Sherlock’s cheeks, if not he would never had felt comfortable loosening his grip on Sherlock and letting Sherlock go.

“I’m here to make a proposition.” After the distraction of being restrained was removed, Sherlock immediately delved into his quest. “I play the violin at obscene hours of the morning, do experiments on the kitchen table. Sometimes, I don’t talk for days, but when I do, I talk endlessly.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Good to know. Now, what’s your proposition?”

“That you move in with me presently.”

John raised both eyebrows. “I thought I told your colleague that—”

“He’s not my colleague.” Sherlock snapped. “I’m not just offering you protection, I’m also offering you a better living condition at a no price at all.”

John let out a long sigh and shook his head. “No. This is one of the best living conditions I can get with my pay.” As the words fell, John seemed to suddenly understand Sherlock’s hidden motive. He tensed and began to glare daggers at Sherlock. “I know you might think that your jails have better condition than this and are absolutely free to stay in. But I don’t want to stay in a jail. I want my freedom.”

“I’m not offering you a jail cell, I’m offering you my house.” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly as he hoisted himself up from the floor and stood to his full height. He knew that his height gave him an authoritative air and he was going make full use of this advantage.

It didn’t seem to work on John though. “I won’t exploit your sympathy for me! If I become your tenant, I will definitely pay. Even if I don’t have enough money, I’ll beg, I’ll borrow, I’ll steal, but I won’t take advantage of your kindness.” John snarled.

Sherlock angled his face so that John couldn’t see it, and then beamed. John Watson was getting more fascinating by the minute. “I am not a kind man, John. Of course I’ll have you pay the rent, but not in monetary terms.

“You used to be a doctor. A surgeon, in fact. With you around, I wouldn’t have to rely on the horrible forensics pathologists sent by the Yard. Furthermore, with your quick reflexes and iron nerves, you can be useful when chasing down criminals. Your skill with the gun is another plus point.

“Any way you look at it you’re the perfect companion for me, John. You help me on my cases and I let you live at my place for free.”

Sherlock was pacing the room now, and judging from the way his heels tapped on the floorboards, the floor was hollow under his feet. Sherlock scowled. The manager was so bent on cost reduction, he didn’t even bother making the floors more sturdy. Anybody with a standard set of morals would know not to treat their workers like worthless machines.

When John opened his mouth again, his voice had lost its edge of hostility now. “I’ve just met you. How do I know I can trust you?”

“No. You met me earlier today. We spent the whole afternoon together, remember?” Sherlock was getting impatient now. Though John’s stubbornness was adorable, it really wasn’t helping Sherlock at that moment.

John sighed loudly and rolled his eyes again, but before he could retort, his bedroom door was thrown open. There was a loud ‘thud’ as the door hit against the wall, then bounced back a few inches.

Moriarty stood in the doorway. “I was just passing by outside and I just couldn’t help overhearing your tantalizing conversation. I’m sure you boys would love to hear my opinion on this.”

Sherlock sniggered at Moriarty’s words. He _clearly_ had no role in the decision making process.

Moriarty didn’t notice, and if he did, he pretended not to and continued happily. “John, I’ll have you move in with him tonight.”

John gave a violent start, and sprinted to Moriarty’s side. “But—”

“No but’s, I’m terminating your tenancy here.”

John still wasn’t willing to give in. “I—”

“Argue anymore and I’ll fire you from the club as well.” Moriarty finished, a satisfied smile on his face.

John was finally out of words now, and stood rigid by Moriarty side like a dejected puppy.

“Get started on packing now, Johnny boy!” Moriarty sang. He gave John a frisky wink before floating out of John’s room gleefully.

In the room, John’s jaw dropped, while Sherlock beamed.

 

*

 

The packing took place extremely rapidly. Sherlock watched with interest as John shoved all his clothing into a canvas bag, which included all but three woollen jumpers and two pairs of faded jeans.

John’s other belonging were even more sparse, and with so little personal belongings, it came as no surprise that John had finished packing in less than ten minutes. Just a little past 9, the two men were walking abreast down the corridor.

“… Henry Knight has already been disposed of!” An agitated voice resonated from behind a closed door.

Both men stopped in their tracks and stared at each other blankly. That declaration sounded too suspicious. There was a moment of silence and both men stood motionless, hoping against hope that whoever had spoken hadn’t heard them.

Their hopes were fulfilled as the voice rang out again. “You mean John Watson?” At the mention of John’s name, both men turned their attention to the accursed door where the voice was coming from. The tag on the door indicated that the room belonged to Victor Trevor.

“Forget about John Watson. I saw a gorgeous brunette today, I’m sure he’ll make a much bigger headline than that little blonde guy.” Victor continued talking, oblivious to the prying ears outside his door.

Silence fell over the corridor again. Sherlock did not wait until Victor began talking again before he dashed towards the door and swung it open. Inside, Victor was sitting on his bed, holding his phone to his ear. It was evident that he was about to climb between the sheets as the duvet was lifted and he was donned in a grey tee-shirt and a pair of loose forest green boxers, upon which were printed adorable little horses.

Both men would have been rolling on the floor laughing at the man’s boxers, had they not just overheard his phone call.

“Hi Victor.” Sherlock greeted the man inside with unnatural sweetness in his voice.

There was a sound much like a whine as Victor’s chin (and phone) fell to the floor. His pupils which were nothing more pin-points before had enlarged to become two black spheres, and his mouth opened and then closed as if he was a fish trying to breath on land.

Seeing that Victor was just too smitten to speak, Sherlock continued, his voice coated with honey and syrup. “I couldn’t wait to call you. So I thought I would come back tonight to ask you face-to-face. Would a dinner date with me be agreeable to you?”

Victor squirmed and blushed to the roots of his hair, but did not say anything. Sherlock assumed that the man was still tight-lipped from having 'the gorgeous brunette' ask him out, and decided to get it over with quickly. “So. I’ll come to pick you up at 7, day after tomorrow.”

Victor's jaw dropped even further, Sherlock did not wait for Victor to answer before he pulled the door closed again.

When Sherlock whirled around again, he saw a peculiar gleam in John's eyes that looked strangely like mockery.

“Let us get going now!” John chirped before Sherlock could puzzle over his expression. In the blink of an eye, he had rushed off down the corridor without waiting for Sherlock. Sherlock looked after the little blonde man and frowned. He was sure he had heard a note of amusement in John’s voice.

 

*

 

The car ride back to Baker Street was unquestionably delightful.

That is if the definition of delightful is Sherlock peeping at John every five seconds, and trying to shift closer to John when he knew John wouldn’t notice, while John huddled up by the window, trying to keep at least a one arm distance between him and Sherlock.

Yes, the ride back home was simply delightful, and Sherlock was going to make it more so.

“Can I borrow your phone?” Sherlock gave up peeping in favour of staring.

“No.” John was in no mood to talk to the man who just made him lose his apartment.

“I want your phone.” Sherlock commanded, glowering at John. Well, as close to glower as he could get, which was a hilarious pout.

John glanced at Sherlock, giggled as if Sherlock had told the world’s funniest joke, took pity in the man, then dug into his pocket and handed Sherlock his phone.

Sherlock didn’t unlock the phone immediately. In fact, he didn’t unlock the phone at all, he just held it in his hand and looked at it wide-eyed. John giggled again. Sherlock looked like a caveman being shown a phone for the first time in his existence. In contrast to how Sherlock was usually impassive and intelligent, the sight was comical.

“You have an older sibling.”

John stopped giggling and looked up at Sherlock. “Yes, a sister.”

“You’re not on good terms with her.” Sherlock probed. John did not know if he meant for John to answer (since he obviously already knew), or was waiting for John to praise his brilliance.

John decided that he did not want to praise the arrogant git. “No. Not since I became, you know, a stripper. Not many older sisters like to see their brothers do that.”

“But you used to be, since she was willing to give you her phone. Obviously an expensive model.” John finally saw that Sherlock was trying very hard at chatting. He looked so tense and uncomfortable that John had to giggle again.

“Well. We were fine as kids. But we only got really close after a talk we had as teenagers. I remember it vividly.

“One day, she came into my room with the strangest expression ever, and asked me what I would do if she told me that she was a lesbian. I replied that I would find it ironic for our homophobic parents to find out that both their kids were queer. We both ended up laughing. And then after that, we would always to go each other for comfort.

“That also explains how my sister and I got kicked out of our house.”

John finished his story with a chuckle, but before the story even ended, Sherlock had gone rigid, staring at John as if spellbound.

When after fifteen seconds, Sherlock was still staring at John sharply, John decided that chatting with Sherlock was not such a good idea after all (even though the man was very entertaining and interesting) and edged away from Sherlock.

The rest of the car ride was delightful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there hasn't been much romance going on (and I know my chapters are super short compared to other fics...), I've already written the next chapter and it doesn't have much romance either (sigh...) but I'll try to add more into the subsequent chapters. Please tell me how to improve/if I'm getting too long-winded, I won't get angry! :)
> 
> P.S. That line about the 5 pin tumbler system, single-circuit burglar alarm comes from 'The Big Bang Theory'. Somehow I seem to like TV shows about a highly intelligent sociopath living with a shorter and slightly-less-intelligent flatmate.
> 
> Sherlock's silly pout:


	6. Mire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I’m sorry I haven’t updated recently...  
> The reason why I haven’t updated is because I’m learning Русский, so be prepared to be blown away by all the parts of this chapter that will be in Русский.

No one can deny the noble beauty of the woman standing in the doorway.

John found himself admiring the lady’s smooth rose-tinted cheeks, sharp nose and cherry lips for a moment. A moment too long, because John recovered just in time to see Sherlock tossing him a strange glance.

He decided to ignore it, he was still angry at Sherlock for what happened that morning.

John remembered his shock and annoyance when he woke up in the morning (okay, it was the afternoon. John sighed, he was something of a late riser) to Sherlock standing at his bedside.

What infuriated John was how Sherlock was perfectly nonchalant about being in John’s personal space.

Sherlock didn’t seem to understand that that was John’s room he was standing in. John’s room that he had just moved into the night before. John’s room where Sherlock had no right to be in. John’s room that essentially still wasn’t his room since he still hasn’t gotten used to how the bedside table was on the right side of the bed.

But that wasn’t the point. Sherlock acted as if he belonged there, like he had every reason to be there watching John sleep. John noticed that Sherlock wasn’t exactly at home with the social niceties of the world, but he should at least know that watching someone sleep is a bit creepy.

Being the soldier that he was, John had scooted away from Sherlock immediately, but being the idiot that he was, he did so before all his senses were awake and he rolled off the bed with a loud ‘thump’.

John was even more infuriated by Sherlock’s response to his disgraceful fall. He stared with the most solemn expression John had ever seen and then he’d just stood there, ignoring John for his phone until John had finished showering.

The way Sherlock ordered him around (“John, I’m going to question Henry Knight’s fiancé, Miss Stapleton, later at three. Get ready before then.”) was even more discourteous. What did Sherlock think John was, his little pet?

John was getting incensed just by thinking about it.

He almost growled when Sherlock spoke.

“Miss Beryl Stapleton. I’m Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. This is my… colleague. We are here to ask some questions about Mr Henry Knight.” Sherlock sounded extremely professional and John had to take a second look to confirm that it was still the arrogant git from the morning standing beside him.

John fancied Miss Stapleton was completely taken in by Sherlock’s civility. A smiled bloomed on her face and she invited the consulting detective into her house heartily. “Oh yes, I’ve been informed about your visit. Do come in.”

With a rather astounded look on his face, John’s ears perked up. Miss Stapleton’s voice was sweet and melodious, like the cry of a Nightingale, but if you were to listen closely, there was a note of despair in her voice. In fact, her voice sounded slightly hoarse, John guessed it was from weeping over Henry’s death.

Another surreptitious glance at Miss Stapleton and John realised that he hated Henry Knight a little bit now. From what John knew of him, the man was just a spineless coward. How did he deserve such a stunning fiancé, while John was left alone and unwanted?

John thought he deserved someone equally beautiful, someone with an even more appealing voice.

His private moment of bitter jealousy was cut short by Sherlock’s smooth, rich voice.

“Who’s that?” Sherlock voiced as he gestured at a picture hanging above the shoe cabinet. He was standing beside the cabinet, leaning his face a little too close to the photo as he studied it.

At Sherlock’s query, Miss Stapleton looked up at the framed photograph as if she hadn’t known it was there.

John could’ve sworn he saw her shudder as she gave the figure in the photo a cursory glance.

“That’s my brother, Jack Stapleton. He’s always busy with his business and rarely comes home. He’s abroad now, so he’s not of much importance really. ”

 _Her brother._ John nodded at Miss Stapleton’s explanation, and then stepped around Sherlock to study the black and white photograph closer.

John blinked a few times at the photograph of Mr Stapleton.

Hadn’t he seen that face somewhere before?

John recalled a fuzzy image of that stern, handsome face filled with sorrow, speaking in a gruff tone. He clearly didn’t know the man, so where had he seen him before? In fact, as John stared at the photograph, he became quite sure that Mr Stapleton’s aquiline features did not resemble Miss Stapleton’s at all.

John wondered if Sherlock noticed it as well. He decided that he had better ask Sherlock about it when they were once again alone. Now, he turned his attention back to the conversation.

“… get comfortable in the sitting room. I’ll bring some tea for the two of you.” The hostess was saying jovially. She was so enthusiastic that she did not wait for the gentlemen’s response before heading back down the corridor towards the kitchen.

John balked, he still had to rush to the club for his shift after the questioning, he really did not need to waste any more time waiting for the hostess to serve tea. “Miss Stapleton.” John tried to call the lady back.

The lady did not seem to hear, even though John was fairly sure that he was loud enough.

“Miss Stapleton!” John called again, raising his voice by a notch. He was definitely loud enough now, but the woman remained oblivious, as if John was calling for another person entirely.

“Miss Beryl Stapleton.” It was Sherlock’s deep voice this time.

To John’s surprise, the woman whipped around immediately.

John furrowed his brow at Miss Stapleton’s behaviour. Sherlock’s voice hadn’t been louder than his, in fact, he was pretty sure the baritone voice had been softer than his own. So why did the lady respond to Sherlock’s call, but not his? Did she really find John so repulsive?

It hurt John’s pride. It really did hurt his pride.

He hadn’t even done anything besides appreciate the lady’s facial features. Heck, he hadn’t even said anything, and the woman already found him detestable. John decided to just let it slide; perhaps it was merely because Sherlock was better looking than him.

 

*

 

They did have tea after all.

John sulked at first, but ten minutes into the interview, John was so engrossed in the dialogue that the tea was very conveniently forgotten.

“Did Mr Knight display any strange behaviour prior to his death?” Sherlock’s voice was clear and resolute.

“Well… He did get extremely restless. He told me that his manager - Jim? James? Joe? - was showing excessive interest in him.”

“What do you mean by excessive attention?”

“Inviting Henry out to dinner, ‘accidentally’ brushing in hand over Henry’s backside a little too often, showing too much concern over Henry’s love life…”

“Yes. The manger _IS_ gay after all.” Sherlock turned to John as he said that, words dripping venom.

John knew that his eyebrows were raised in mock surprise.

He was appalled that Sherlock thought he was unaware that his boss was gay. Of course he knew that Jim was gay. Why else would Jim obtain a strip club called _The Rear End_ , if not because he has a thing for it? And why else would Jim have so many male strippers?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but turned to Miss Stapleton again. “Mr Knight wrote a will a few days before his death, did you advise him to do it?”

“Yes.” Miss Stapleton answered quietly, as if unsure of herself now that Sherlock had brought it up.

“You do know that he is leaving all his possessions to you.”

Miss Stapleton gave a violent start. “No. No… I didn’t. I told him to write a will because I was afraid that he was in danger. Not because –”

“How would you know?” Sherlock’s interruption caused Miss Stapleton to jolt.

At Miss Stapleton’s reaction, Sherlock uttered a thoughtful hum, his gaze fixed on Miss Stapleton’s face.

From what John could see, the poor creature was utterly confused.

Miss Stapleton’s eyes darted around the room, eventually landing on the cup of tea in her hand. As she replaced the tea on the coffee table, her gaze became distant and she ran a hand down her forearm absent-mindedly.

John’s attention was caught by the movement and he looked at Miss Stapleton’s arm.

He gasped.

There were four large purple bruises on her arm. They were each of a different shade of purple, as if whoever had forced them on her was trying to find out how many different colours the human skin is capable of displaying.

Hoping that Sherlock would comment on the bruises, John looked to Sherlock, only to see Sherlock stand up abruptly. Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock had seized his arm and he found himself being pulled out of the Stapleton estate in a daze.

 

*

 

After pulling John out of the little mason, Sherlock’s long fingers remain wrapped around John’s elbow until they had crossed at least four more streets.

“What are you doing?” John shouted once he was released.

“That place could have been dangerous.”

John wrinkled his nose in repulsion. “What do you mean dangerous? Miss Stapleton is a perfectly innocuous lady who suffers from domestic abuse.”

“You will be the one suffering from domestic abuse if you keep questioning me.”

John paused and took a deep breath.

If Sherlock was planning on hitting him after they got home, he’d better be prepared for a fist in the face. And if Sherlock was playing some prank on him about how dangerous Miss Stapleton was, he’d better be prepared for two fists in the face.

“John. Her last name is not Stapleton.” The expression on Sherlock’s face was nothing but sombre. “That’s why she didn’t respond when you called her ‘Miss Stapleton’, she’s not used to that title.”

Sherlock’s words were like gospel, and John suddenly felt enlightened. It was as if Sherlock had just explained why electrons have no mass.

So ‘Miss Stapleton’ didn’t hate him after all! John let a wave of relief wash over him. “Why didn’t I notice that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.” The curt response from Sherlock was more than degrading.

John curled up his fingers into a taut fist.

The prat really needed to learn some manners, and if nobody else was going to teach him, John would.

John squared his shoulders and squinted up at Sherlock, ready to attack.

That was when he saw that Sherlock’s lips were curled up into a playful smile.

That smile was a like a punch to the gut and John stumbled back a few steps as he tried to smother his anger. Sherlock was joking? Sherlock can joke? Sherlock knows how to joke? Does Sherlock even know the definition of the word ‘joke’? Maybe he imagined that smile? No, the smile was still there on Sherlock’s face.

John blinked.

Then blinked again.

“You…” John began.

John did not know what he should say. Apologise? Ask if Sherlock was feeling alright? Shake Sherlock by the shoulders to see if he was being possessed?

John almost jumped for joy when his brain prompted him to ask Sherlock about Mr Stapleton.

John uncurled his fingers and let his hands lay limp by his side. “Don’t you think Mr Stapleton looks a little familiar?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock knitted his brow, and John knew that he was on his own this time (Well, at least Sherlock was back to normal now).

“I think I have seen him on the telly before. He was being interviewed about something, and he looked depressed… Like he was mourning…?”

John looked up at Sherlock for confirmation like everyone always did when they was unsure.

To his surprise, Sherlock’s eyes were glimmering and his eyes drifted from left to right as if he was considering something very cautiously.

“Would you say it looked like the news?”

The news? That was possible, John did remember Mr Stapleton speaking into a microphone… “Yes. Yes, it did.”

Something lit up in Sherlock’s mind and suddenly Sherlock became oddly excited.

“John. We need to get back to Baker Street.” Sherlock exclaimed, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet like an excited puppy.

The sudden surge of adoration for Sherlock was unexpected, and John bit back a simper. He should not be swayed by this spectacular detective right now, his shift at the club was starting in five minutes. And anyway, when the detective was not being completely endearing, he was just completely enraging.

John was prepared to give Sherlock a small lecture on why he should be at work instead. But before he could even sort out his thoughts, Sherlock had gripped his arm again and the duo was flying down the streets of London at top speed.

 

 

And last but not least, the part in _Русский:_

_Ладно, я на самом деле сделал не учиться любой Русский  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the real reason why I haven't been updating is because I've been drowning myself in video games and cheap wine (Just got a new bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, but you know, the really cheap kind).  
>   
> Sorry this chapter is just about questioning some victim, but I wanted to introduce all the suspects. Also I really wanted to add the snazzy for the next chapter but I got too long-winded again and it got pushed back to the chapter after the next. *sigh*  
>   
> P.S. The translation of that line in Русский is:  
>  _Okay, I really did not learn any Русский_ (And I really didn't...)
> 
>  


End file.
